We Walk These Busy Streets Alone
by ShadowSpires
Summary: The future is not for the faint of heart. Jason is the last one left, and the nights are lonely. There is always a spark of light, however, even in the darkest places. (Background Jason/Kon-El, Past Tim/Kon) " He walked down one of Gotham's streets, a moving patch of shadows in a shadowless world."


He walked down one of Gotham's streets, a moving patch of shadows in a shadowless world.

Gotham's streets were no longer dark like they had been, with flickering street lights and grasping shadows. The nights were never truly dark anymore in Gotham. At times it felt like she heaved and bucked at the indignity, when she wasn't preening as the glitter illuminated her filth.

Jason was alone. Still in Gotham. Or, rather, back in Gotham, once again. He always found himself drawn back to this city. Again, and again, and again. She was a siren, this city. Beautiful, from the distance, irresistible song pulling you in. But then she had you, trapped, dashed to bits against her sharp rocks.

He knew that, yet he couldn't stop coming back.

A hover-car hissed past him. It would need it's stabiliser replaced soon. It was listing ever so slightly to the right, and it didn't sound right. He had learned these things. Necessity had always been the best teacher, even to grudging learners. Sometimes though, he absolutely hungered for the roar and thrum of a well-tuned combustion engine.

Jason never expected to be the last one left. Of all of them, he was the first one to die, the most violent. The most fucked in the head, excepting maybe Bruce. Yet they went, one by one, even the little demon-brat.

The Replacement would have loved this world of technology and science, Jason was sure. Irredeemable geek that he was, under that professional exterior.

Not that Jason had known that at the time. He had been too consumed by rage, by hurt and righteousness, to ever really get to know the younger Robin.

But Kon had. Loneliness, displacement and desperation were enough to force him to make friends out of the unlikeliest of people. Even Superboy.

Superman, now

Kon fit this time, in many ways. Or had adapted to it, anyway. More than Big Blue ever could have. It was probably better that Clark had never lived to see what humanity had come to. For all he had fought crime most of his life, he had never lost his inherent belief in the good of people. He would have hated this world; would have broken himself to pieces in an attempt to fix it.

Kon was always good for a conversation about the good, and bad, old days. Or more often for a good, solid, present fuck; hot and sweaty, nothing there, nothing mattering except the other body naked with you, twisting in the clinging sheets. Not an absent fuck, one wrapped in virtual reality, which was all the rage these days. And if sometimes they each called out other names - ones soft and sharp and aching with distance and time and loss - well, they were kind enough not to mention.

Kon talked a lot about Tim, though. About his Robin. Jason let him, though every story increased his own regret for not getting to know the boy. In turn, Jason told him about his interactions with Superman, from the times Superman, Batman and Robin had all worked together. Simpler times.

Sometimes Jason wondered if Gotham's siren taint had spread to cover the rest of the world.

Sometime he wondered if Ra's was right to have wanted to wipe it off the map.

Not that Ra's was around anymore, to say "I told you so."

Dick had killed him. It had been the last thing he ever did, but he had killed the son of a bitch who was wearing his protege's, his son's, body.

Dick's life's blood, willingly given, had completed the spell which freed Damian from Ra's and cast the Demon's Head into the void forever. Damian returned to himself with only time to hold Dick while he died.

The boy had cried, silently, the first and last tears shed since infant-hood. Then he had dedicated the rest of his life to Gotham, to fulfilling his mentor's faith in him, and his father's mission. And to taking the League of Shadows apart, piece by bloody piece.

Jason had helped him with that. Talia was dead, so his last affectionate tie to the League was gone. They had killed his brother. He and Dick may not have been on good terms, but they had been brothers. He was more than happy to wreak a little vengeful chaos.

Eventually even Damian fell, though, and Jason was alone once more, in a city crying out for her protector. Tim was no where to be found, missing for months even before Damian meet his end. Nature hates a void, and Gotham more than most, so Jason found himself stepping up.

He was Batman, now. The least he could do for the father he had loved and tried to kill. For the older brother he had loved, but never let in. For the younger brothers he never let himself know, until it was too late.

A different kind of Batman, for a different kind of Gotham, for a different world. Sometimes he felt so out of place he could do nothing but scream and rage at the heavens. Other times it felt like he had only even been at home here, now, in these streets veined with the worst of humanity, no longer hidden in the shadows but showcased in full view.

He wiped the blood off his gauntlet with a damp wipe, cleaning away the remnants of his scuffle with a Sin Master who thought it was okay not to pay his girls. Huh. On second thought, maybe the world never really changed, after all. He tossed the wipe in the gutter, where it was immediately the prize of two chittering disposal bots, who squabbled over it briefly, before one ran away, beeping victoriously. It was a little fastidious of him, but with no Alfred - and how does that still hurt, after all of these decades? - he learned real quick that wet blood was leagues easier to get out, especially of the small joins and creases of a gauntlet, than dried blood.

His ride was tucked down a side alley. The narrow twisting alleys that oozed off of Crime Alley like tendrils of ink were one of the few places that can still be relied upon to be truly dark, not lit by the crazed neon piping that illuminated every street in the damn city, or the general glow of the city that lit even the worst areas like a clear moon-full night.

It was impossible to see the stars anymore. It had been possible, sometimes, in the Gotham he had been born into. Late at night, when the city was asleep, all her denizens in bed; except for those who embraced the darkness. You could sometimes look up and see the brightest of the stars, valiantly straining through the gloom. They had been something of a talisman in his youth. He'd always been amazed by how many more of them you could see from the Manor.

Now you could barely see the moon.

Still, the alleys, tucked in the deep shadows of tall buildings, were a pretty safe bet for some good old fashioned shadows.

His ride was tucked in one just ahead. He hesitated to call it a bike, though he supposed that was what it most closely resembled. To him, a bike had to have wheels. Had to purr between his legs, and be treated with the respect of a delicate lady; when she wasn't being ridden hard.

Couldn't fucking _float_, unless you had taken too many of the wrong kind of pill - or not enough of the right kind.

He stepped into the alley on silent feet. Habit, more than anything. He wasn't in the Batsuit, which would make some of the jackals attack him out of sheer perversity, but he did exude the kind of 'don't fuck with me' attitude that would keep even the most desperate away.

He slipped out of the light, eyes adjusting -

He wasn't alone.

He couldn't see anyone else, but he had learned long ago to trust his instincts.

He scanned the shadows- movement, on the far side of his bike.

He slipped deeper into the alley, letting his cape slide forward to cover the dull glint of his utility belt. The glow of the cowl's eyes were the faintest gleam in the dark as the night-enhancement features engaged. The fain swish of the cape was inaudible against the clamour which rang faintly down the alley from the street. Now in full stealth mode, and around so he could see the other side of his bike.

What was this? Some sort of half-assed ambush?

No. There was a small figure crouched at the side of his bike. A small comp-unit, presumably used to disengage what Jason had *thought* were incredibly formidable defences, was emitting a weak light, shining into the front stabiliser's battery compartment.

A small stack of power cells sat half wrapped in a dirty cloth next to her. Ready to be bundled together and look like nothing more than a waif's belongings, instead of several thousand credit's worth of power cells.

She was poking carefully at the remaining power cell in his bike with a jury-rigged tool. The last, by the looks of the stack beside her.

She was, in the context of this world, *jacking his fucking tires.*


End file.
